Tabula Rasa
by Jeanne Luz
Summary: Tiva. A jet Lag interlude 'He’s taking the lack of argument over possession of the bed as a nonverbal statement that they will share. Either that, or she was silently plotting his demise, although she seemed to have grown out of the ‘DIE’ phase.'
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer. Need I disclaim that I do not own these characters and I am merely borrowing them to make the dance across the page? Probably. Ok. I don't own them. Sad but true.

Thanks to all those who've reviewed and put me on author alert.

Yes. I am finishing up 'Unfaithful,' but this wanted to come out first. Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans.

Many thanks to sheepatetheflower for getting me to write again, and for betaing it all.

This is the First Chapter of a Two Parter.

Thanks to all, stjeannedluz

Tabula Rasa

"You look a little green around the gills," Tony says as the plane screeches off into the sky.

"I do not have gills."

"I mean you look like you're going to be sick."

"Oh. I do not like take off and landing. They are considerably better on passenger plane though."

"It'll be fine." He smiles at her. The past pushes through to the present for a moment and he reminds himself that she's alive and well and sitting next to him. She's not on the floor of a military transport flopping around like a rag doll during hours of turbulence.

It's the first time he's thought about it their last flight together in a months. It had taken some work to compartmentalize the image of her battered and crusty body stretched out over a woolen army green blanket.

For the first leg of the flight out of Somalia he'd sat on the floor next to her, propping her up every few minutes for McGee to tip a bottle of water to her lips. They'd been acutely short of any other supplies to help her. They hadn't expected to bring her back.

She'd stared at them, her gaze wide and unfocused until the light faded from her eyes and her eyelids lulled shut. He took the opportunity empty his stomach as quietly as possible. He was afraid to let her see it. He was beyond caring if the rest of the team did.

When they started to land, she roused, her eyes wild. He'd tried to talk to her, but nothing came out.

It was McGee whose reassuringly steady voice pierced her post rescue haze. Her eyes snapped back into focus. "Hey."

Tony hadn't been able to say anything.

Again it was McGee who managed to find his voice. "Hey yourself Ziva. I'm glad we got you back."."

Her lips tugged up in a wan smile. "I want to get up."

Tony had wanted to tell her to lie still but when she lifted her arms up to him he'd half pulled her into his lap. She'd placed her head on his shoulder and passed out, snoring softly. "She's really sound asleep when she does this," he said. It was more than he'd ever meant to share about their past together. Still, the cat was almost definitely out of the bag. McGee had heard everything in interrogation. And both he and Gibbs were smart enough to read between the lines on this one.

"You know you don't have to say anything," McGee said. "She's safe. She happy. It's what counts."

He nodded a silent _Thank You_. He still couldn't talk.

X

He pulls back into the much more pleasant reality of now. "I'm not a fan of hopping the pond either. But this is different," he says. It's the closest he's ever gotten of bringing up the subject.

She just smiles, a little sadly.

As soon as they've leveled out in the air she gets her color back. "Make sure you drink enough water. Dehydration plays a big role in jet lag," she says.

"Noted."

She curls up in the fetal position, her legs on the empty seat beside them. Her head rests in his lap. "Wake me up in an hour. We can take turns. Safer that way." She breathes out a contented sigh he's only heard in her sleep during one summer a lifetime ago.

"S'okay. Too excited to sleep," he says.

"You still should. "Now's the time. I've got your back. You've got mine."

"Okay. An hour," he lies.

The presence of her unattended purse left on the seat is taunting. He debates the wisdom of snooping in it until temptation wins out. The flight attendants are pushing the elbow-bashing silver cart down the aisle when he finally gets up the nerve to peer into it. It's now or never. She's sure to wake when the cart laden with cafeteria-style lunches squeaks to a stop by their seats.

He peers in and bites back a laugh. There's just something special about being the only person on earth who knows she packs lipstick, eyeliner and mascara alongside a side arm and granola bar.

X

A horrific imitation of a French accent jars her from her sleep. She wakes to find she's been drooling in his lap and he's complaining to the flight attendants. "Time is it?" she asks.

"Don't know. Somewhere over the Atlantic?"

Her eyes roll.

"Keep that up and your eyes are gonna fall right out of your head."

"Ha," she says.

"You're cute when you drool you know."

He's baiting her and she knows it. She opens her purse. "Want something to eat?"

"Don't they take care of that on the flight?"

"If you can call it food."

He picks at his food when it arrives. Hers is largely untouched.

She looks drained, like someone hit the off switch on the woman who seemed to never need to eat or sleep.

"Why don't you go back to sleep?" he says.

"It's your turn."

"As much as I appreciate your newfound ability to share Zee-vah. I'm the boss here. Go back to sleep."

She rolls her eyes again and she surprises the hell out of him by following what in effect is a direct order. Then again, she might not be sleeping. The way she's got her head nuzzled-no nuzzling- in his lap he certain they're about to get an unannounced moment of PDA on his part. It's not something he wants to experience on an airplane. Not in public anyways

An hour later she wakes. It both annoys and relieves him.

"I have to pee," she says sweetly.

Thank goodness. Kryptonite.

X

The hotel desk clerk is an older woman in a navy blue dress.

"Good Evening Madame DiNozzo."

"Good Evening." Ziva doesn't correct the woman. Tony's staring at the ornate ceiling and it's not like he can understand her. Any dispute will make him ask questions and she's not in the mood to be teased about it.

The room is a first floor walk up created out of a century old residence. It's a tiny little affair that affords a spectacular view of the city through a floor to ceiling window that is bisected by a wrought iron grille.

"This is a double bed? It seems smaller- I don't think I've ever slept on anything that small." He wrinkles his nose.

"They usually have smaller dimensions in Europe. You have to get through much smaller spaces."

"It looks like a doll bed."

"It looks considerably more comfortable than many things I have slept on."

He grins. He's taking the lack of argument over possession of the bed as a nonverbal statement that they will share. Either that, or she was silently plotting his demise, although she seemed to have grown out of the '_DIE_' phase.

"Still kick box in your sleep Zee-vah?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." She swings her suitcase up on the stand and extracts her toiletry kit with surgical precision. "I'm taking a shower."

The tiny white hexagonal tiles are cold under her feet She pauses for a heartbeat, her hand still on the doorknob. She only debates her own wisdom for a second, before pushing the door open, in an open invitation for him to investigate. Provoking Tony is always a good way to gauge the temperature of the waters and she's not sure of what they are supposed to do now that they're alone.

She's starting to wonder if he's going to take the bait when she hears him slip into the room. He's lounging against the wall in a way she can only describe as 'slouching provocatively.' She's probably going to lose the upper hand soon. Time to act fast. "Do you want get something to eat? I'm hungry."

"Oh. Me too," he grins. He's a wolf in a flight-wrinkled suit.

_No. Yes. No. Yes. Yes?_ "Like I haven't heard that one."

"It's classic. Mrs. DiNozzo."

She drops the shower wand into the curtainless tub and grabs her bar of soap, lobbing it with just enough ferocity to thud on the doorjamb.

"Missed me."

"On purpose."

He slinks out of the bathroom and she hurries to finish the shower she didn't really need in the first place.

X

Tony doesn't have to turn around to know she's standing right behind him.

He freezes, a pair of her white cotton boy shorts in his guilty hands. He's set a pair of black pants, a black tank top and a thin green sweater on the bed. No bra though. He knows she never bothers. He likes it that way.

She gives him the curved lip smirk, the come on smile, and snatches them from his hands. Her eyes flit south. "Careful. You're going to put an eye out with that thing."

"Your fault." "

"There's a café down the street," she says as she slips into her underwear.

"Café in Paris." Smirk. "And it's close to our room."

"Our?' she asks. "You are very sure of yourself."

"At the moment, yes."

"That makes one of us." She pulls her sweater over her tank top. "You can blink now."

X

They eat in smiling silence. Her face is gentle with wide-eyed wonder for a moment when she looks out to the street. It would be the perfect picture. But his camera is still in the room and she'd probably whack him in the eye with it anyway. There's always later.

She fills her glass with red wine for the second time. He hasn't touched his.

"I'm ok if you do." She says.

Permission or an order it doesn't matter. She's caught on to the fact he hasn't had anything to drink since she greeted him as agent afloat with the blunt knowledge that was on the edge of not knowing when to say when. "One's fine then. More for you if you want it."

She tips back her glass. "C'est la vie."

He knows it has a literal translation but with her it sounds like _Screw it. I'm in Paris. Shoot anyone who sneaks up on me._

The check is way over budget and he picks up the slack.

Ziva's face is turned down, lips and eyes smiling up at him when she kisses him on the cheek. "Thank you."

"Agency paid for most of it."

"I was talking about the company." Her voice is pitched low, and he almost has to strain to hear it. "But thank you for that too."

Damn. If it was a date no one told him. "Welcome."

She nods. She looks like she's steeling herself for something. If she says anything like 'marry me," he's going to drop dead in his chair.

"Can we…talk…in our room?"

Oh. That sounds worse. He'll just drop dead in the room.

"Sure thing Mrs. DiNozzo…" It's too good to pass up. He wonders how many times he'll be able to needle her with it before she goes ballistic.

"Knock it off. Or I'll knock it off for you."

Probably it was best to drop the needling.

Anxiety pulsed through his veins as they made their way back to their room.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer:Done and Done in the first chapter.

Ok. Who thinks that they'd let rule 12 stop them? I think rules are meant to be broken when not applicable to the situation. I'm sure they'd agree.

Thank You to all who have put me on author/story alert and to those who've left a review. I'm not a believer in holding a story for ransom or begging for reviews. I will say though I very much appreciate hearing from you. It's always nice to get constructive feedback and to know the story is appreciated.

Mil Gracias-Jeanne.

X

The scant space between them feels like a brick wall as they stand together at the wrought iron railing in their room. It's fitting neither can look the other in the eye, nor look completely away.

"Bellisima," he breathes.

A smug smirk creeps to her lips and turn into a subtle smile as she slides him a sideways glance. "It is a beautiful city." She finds his eyes and painfully holds his gaze. "But thank you."

He has no idea how to bring up the subject so he just steps in. "I meant what I said. I just couldn't..."

She cuts him off. "You want to be forgiven." It is equal parts a question and statement.

"Yes," he says. "You still do too."

She gives a hesitant nod. True unveiled words are strange to them. In fact she'd swear they leave a funny taste in her mouth. "I do."

His hand is over hers on the rail as they stare out into the night. When her arm goes around his waist he takes it as permission to pull her in close. His grin broadens.

She recognizes it as smile No. 6, the 'I'm the cat you're the mouse. "_What_!?" She demands in that angry, impatient, endearing voice she uses expressly with him when's she had enough.

_I do_. "I'm a little worried we might kill each other. "An official marriage contract complete with kids doesn't sound doesn't sound like them. Perhaps in another five or ten years they would start to think about it. _Maybe._ They're only good at planning day to day when it comes to their private life. He's planning on sticking around if she'll let him.

"_WHAT?!"_

"Nothing. Everything."

They are in the most intricate and carefully choreographed yet unrehearsed dance of their life. What is worse, it is a verbal one fought on new terrain in oh-so-many ways.

They can tell by the awkward space between the beats in the verbal tango that both their minds are in overdrive no matter how tired their bodies are after many hours of delay.

In the darkness above the hum and laughter of the street, his eyes scan the cityscape. White lights punch through black veil of night. "Everything looks better in black and white."

She nods, "Like love and hate? I used to think they were opposites but they're not. They're both complete involvement of emotion over mind and both incite fear and jealousy.

"When did you get so poetic? I supposed this is the place."

"Shut up."

"Not poetic."

She tightens her grip on him and he can feel her vibrating like a high- tension power line. In fact it's an apt analogy for her.

"Can we just drop it?" The anger in his voice startles even him.

"Yes." Her grip turns to a new kind of electricity, a pleasant hum. "This is probably the best place to let the dead stay dead." Her voice is sweet, steady and soothing.

She's offering them a blank slate.

"I can live with that. With this." He can't help but press a kiss into her hair. It's completely sappy but it seems appropriate. All he can say is she smells like Ziva. Assassins aren't overly fond of telegraphing their presence with perfume or heavily scented shampoo.

She is pliant in his grasp. "I am not a this."

"I meant we can end it and start it here."

"It?"

"Us," he asks. States. Pleads.

The smirk is back. And a nod in the affirmative, "On two conditions."

"Conditions? Please. With you it's more like terms of surrender."

"I can teach you surrender."

His breath tickles her ear. "Oh really? Who says I can't teach it to you?"

He hears his voice out loud and panics. Surrender. Captivity. Suddenly the past overtakes the present. His grip on her arm is white knuckled, as if she might vanish.

Her look could pierce Kevlar layered over Kevlar. Or titanium carbide like the new bullet proof vests. He thinks briefly it would have been a good metal for a wedding band for her.

"Terms of surrender, or not?"

"Shoot. Not literally though."

She smiles and kisses him on the lips; feather light. Perhaps it's goodbye. Perhaps she means something more. Whatever it is, he drops the death grip on her arm to put both arms around her waist.

"First. Are we forgiven?" she asks.

"Yes."

She muscles him backwards until his knees are pinned between hers and the bed. It's her _Yes_.

She kisses him again, a little longer and a little slower. Her pink tongue passes over her lower lip when she pulls back. "Second. We are to be a secret."

"I'll take it to my grave." He means it. There's something special about the two of them having their own private world together.

"Good," she says. "You're half way there."

"Hey." He glosses over the fact that his fortieth had sucked, for reasons that he could never have imagined. He didn't care about the number. Much. "Forty is the new thirty."

He hopes that she won't call him on the fact that the statement is just too girly and he wants to retract it. If only life came with a rewind/delete button.

"Good then. We're even."

"Good then. Or I'd be a cradle robber. Or can I use the term now that you've hit the big 3-0?" He's pretty sure he's finally figured out how old she is thanks to her driver's license and they've only had to be on three separate continents together.

"You're telling me you haven't?"

"Hit the big 3-0? Chronologically. Yes."

"Robbed the cradle. I mean." She smiles. "I know you've grown up." Her hands are laced behind his neck. "Some."

"Not knowingly. You?"

'Grown up?"

"Slept with jail bate. You?"

She screws up her face, pensive, until she processes the term. "Haven't." She says. "I have taste."

"So do I."

"Now." She knocks him backwards onto the bed and purrs her happy hunting sound. This time she's the cat. He's the mouse.

_She would make a wonderful jungle cat_ he muses, long, sleek and powerful. He scoots back as she advances on all fours until she has him with his back pressed against the headboard.

"Wait. There's something you should know," he says. He can't believe he's about to say this but a little more honesty can only be a good thing between them. Hopefully.

She pauses. "You didn't go and get…something… did you? Because if you did I swear I'll wring your neck…or better yet." Her gaze is fixed in the wrong spot.

"No!" he yells. "I want to keep that. And no. I did not." He gulps air. He's nervous. Potentially _last first time, again, _nervous. "Just. Been a while. And…I don't want to start this off-by.... I hope….and..." He finds himself spilling the trials and tribulations of losing his…abilities…with woman until he turned it in for monkhood.

She doesn't make any jokes at his expense. She just nods. "Then they were just the wrong women."

She inches closer.

"What about you?" He's fishing to see if there had been anything between her-and Werth. Before realizing he's stepped into yet another gaping maw of a verbal quagmire. The question is too open ended in light of recent events.

"I have not made love to anyone in quite some time," she states. She's purposely being evasive with a vague answer but it reassures him.

"Then we're even."

She directs his gaze to the clock with her own. Twenty two hundred hours. "Maybe in another twenty minutes we'll be even."

"Honey," he mutters. "Probably more like ten."

"I know. I was being nice."

"Imagine that."

"You're worried. About what?"

"Already told you."

"Don't worry. I've got your back."

"I know. I just...."

Her body hovers over his. "Shut it. Less talking. More practice."

His hands go around her waist and he pulls her down to kiss her before he flips her over. "Is this make-up sex? Because that's one of my favorites."

Her hands are warm and soft on his back. Her knees sweep the outside of his thighs and hips as she angles herself up to meet him. Even under him she has complete control of his senses. Her teeth nip his earlobe. "Me too."

The ten –minute mark is a satiating stretch.

X

She can't help but notice they're a good fit when they fall asleep. He's not too clingy and not too far away.

She wakes later in the night. He's shifted in his sleep and she's not used to being next to anyone. His right foot is hooked over hers, tethering them in the night.

In the morning she gravitates back to him like an object at terminal velocity. "That," she says, "was meant to be a blunt force object."

"Leave it to you to make a C.O.D sound sexy."

She's on her side, her right leg slung over his body. She kisses him, short and hard before sliding her hand roughly down his side. She's on top of him in one smooth motion. "I have my moments," she breathes.

"Yeah, well. Keep that up and I'm going to have a moment right now."

"Me first."

X

At breakfast they don't speak out loud but return to the more comfortable ways of non-verbal tactical combat.

When he starts to get impatient she gives him a taciturn. "Just go." Her voice is much softer when she leans across the table and kisses him. "I'll catch up."

"I'll see you in an hour."

"Make it two."

He grins gleefully. He's ready to come up for air and breathe.

X

She gets uneasy after McGee calls. She's on edge, wondering if he can hear in her voice everything that's happened. Ziva's not lying and she's not telling the truth either when she says, "I think it might be easier to be traveling with a toddler."

"Maybe he needs a nap."

She laughs. _Nap. I know how to make him nap_. It was one of the few inevitable 'after' things. Tony slept. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling until she passed out or he woke up.

When he slides into the opposing seat two hours later he's calmly confident and she's churning inside.

She's sharp tongued with him and he's oh-too-pleasant with her.

It doesn't take him long until she's mellow enough to hop onto the Vespa and curl her arms around his waist, her head aligned with his. No fuss. No come back. She doesn't want to fight anymore. Not at the moment. She's not naïve enough to believe in smooth sailing between them.

She directs him to a spot near the Seine. "Take a walk with me?"

He doesn't say anything. He just grins and grabs her hand. It's a little unsettling. She has to remind herself that no one is looking and that they are in the editing the "them" definition. It's ok if she doesn't know quite what to think other than she's content with him.

She turns her attention to postcards while he photographs everything in sight. He's slightly embarrassing to travel with but she lets him go.

He's like a happy little puppy when he trots up on her heels, camera in hand. "Do we have to go yet?"

"In an hour. What are you so smug about?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Right."

X

When they get on the plane they protest too much. They should have discussed how to get their stories straight before they got back home and made an overt mistake.

The flight is a little uneasy. The fact that Nora can see right through them is unsettling.

_If we were with any of the team we'd be flunking the 'Nothing to see here_ _do not read between the lines test,'_ Ziva thinks.

So they talk of _would_ not, _could_ not, _should _not be done but not DID and WOULD and WILL. The best lies are just the truth with vital parts omitted. It's time for them to work on the presentation because Nora's not buying a thing.

X

Tony feels the need to protest Ziva's declaration that she should be the one to take out their knitting needle wielding assassin. "I can do this!"

She glares at him. "Do I need the list all the reasons I am better at this part than you?"

"No. I'll be the sacrificial lamb but you'd better let me open a jar or start killing spiders for you when we get home."

"Deal. I have a one the size of a light bulb in my kitchen."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really. It's really quite disturbing. Are you ready?"

"I'm always up for a good chick fight."

X

Back in 'Gibbs' Office' Tony hits the elevator stop button. "So, why _did_ you lie? You could have told Nora and made her keep her mouth shut."

"Because usually keeping a secret involves keeping _your own _mouth shut."

"Do you want to come over tonight?"

She flicks the elevator switch back on. "I do like your apartment."

"What about its occupant?"

"No," she says. Before he can look disappointed she adds, "I have a bad feeling I might be in love with him. But he can be a real jerk."

X

Later in the week they stand together in his kitchen. She's followed him home for the second time. She likes his apartment better. Somehow his feels much more like a home.

The way he's staring at her either he wants sex or food.

"Yes?"

"I'm hungry. Are you making dinner soon? I was thinking that chicken thing you make would be nice."

Her eyes narrow, "Should I cut up your meal and feed it to you too?"

"Ok. I can heat up the take out from last night."

She shakes her head. "No thank you. I have no desire to come down with botulism. Or a case of fat and forty."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I am not calling you anything other than a pain when you are hungry. I will make dinner and you will do the dishes."

"The dishwasher is broken."

Ziva leans into his face. "There's always cereal."

"Okay," he says. "Have you seen the sponge?"

X

Later that night, he lifts her legs off the sofa and plunks them down in his lap. "Do you want to do something?"

"No."

"Oh." He sounds slightly crestfallen.

She sets her book down on the coffee table. Her finger hooks into the waistband of his jeans and she tugs him closer. "Not _something_. Just you."

X

END

Hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading.

Jeanne


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